


For Science

by illwick



Series: Unwind [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Dog Tags, Dom!John, Dry Humping, Exhibitionism, Fluff and Angst, Forced Orgasm, Kink Negotiation, Kitchen Sex, Light BDSM, M/M, Morning Sex, Nipple Play, Overstimulation, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Power Exchange, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, References to Depression, Safe Sane and Consensual, Submission, Triggers, Under-negotiated Kink, Voyeurism, aftercare negotiation, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-01 03:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock and John conduct a rigorous series of experiments, all in the name of science.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And now back to our regularly-scheduled programming!
> 
> I feel like this series has been a bit angsty in recent installments, so here's a couple of angst-light porny one-shots for your perusal.
> 
> Also--I'm far enough along in the series now that I'm not going to include as much exposition about the status of their relationship at the beginning of each installment. If you're new to this series and need context about the establishment and ground rules of their D/S dynamics, I'd suggest you start this series from the beginning. But if you're new to this series and are just here for the porn, no explanation needed--welcome! Carry on!

Despite his near-photographic memory, Sherlock keeps a series of notebooks wherein he records the details of all his experiments. For the experiments that are completed, there are pages of data and results to peruse, all recorded in his scrawling shorthand. For the ones that are in-progress, there are dogeared sections with scribbled hypothesis littering the margins, a fastidious record of a mind in motion. And for the ones he's not yet begun, there's a separate series of notebooks altogether--a jumbled list of jotted intents, large and small alike, a living record of scientific aspiration the likes of which even the most devoted of researchers would describe as "ambitious."

They're one of the few physical possessions in this world that Sherlock Holmes actually values.

He stores them all in a fireproof lockbox which he keeps in the cabinet below the display cases in the sitting room. They've survived hell and high water with him--leaving them behind after he Fell was a pain so acute he'd wondered how he could survive it. But John surely would have noticed if they'd gone missing. He could leave no trace.

The night he returned from exile, he'd made his way silently up the stairs to his flat, his nose still bloodied from his encounter with John's fists. Upon entering the sitting room, he went directly to the cabinet and pulled out the lockbox. He'd opened it and spent an hour just running his fingers along the bindings of the notebooks, reminding himself that he was here--that he existed, he was not a ghost, that his life's work was in tact, that he was _real_ and _here_ and everything still _mattered._

If he'd not had the notebooks to remind him, he's fairly certain he would have overdosed that night.

But he hadn't. The notebooks had held back that darkness for a precious little while. 

These days, the darkness is merely the ghostliest of halos vignetting his day-to-day. His hours are filled with everything that had been there before: the Work, the experiments, the compositions, the boredom.

But they're also filled with a myriad of things that were notably _not_ there before: social visits from friends and family (a former annoyance which he'd learned to tolerate), Rosie (and the corresponding responsibilities involved in raising a child), and of course, _John._

John had been there before the Fall, technically. And he'd filled Sherlock's hours in wild and wonderful ways, and Sherlock had adored him.

And then Sherlock Fell and it all went terribly off-track.

But that's all in the past now. Because now they're _together_ and _happy_ and _free._ John still fills Sherlock's hours in wild and wonderful ways, but now they're _open_ about it, and they _talk_ to each other, and Sherlock bloody _loves_ him.

It's aching, crushing, glorious _sentiment._

Sherlock has never felt more alive.

So in the back of his lockbox is now a new notebook. It's just called _John._ And it's filled with a list of the most deliciously salacious experiments that Sherlock's prodigious mind can conjure.

Sometimes he's very forward with John when he's looking to cross an experiment off the list. There was the time he declared that he was going to see how quickly he could get John off in the shower every morning for two weeks straight (after John complained that Sherlock was making him late for the surgery), and John had been delightfully amenable--he'd seemed pleased with the results of the experiment, which were that Sherlock could reliably suck him off in under two minutes, though they'd had to extend the test period to a full month to make sure that the results were accurate. The data collection on that one was still ongoing--it was of the utmost importance to continue to test his conclusion at random intervals to eliminate the potential for Pavlovian conditioning.

John was similarly chuffed when Sherlock ran a series of experiments on the taste of his semen, though he flat-out refused to eat the Durian fruit Sherlock had traveled all the way to the Chinatown market to pick up, which had led to a bit of a domestic. Luckily John had made it up to Sherlock by suggesting that Sherlock eat the Durian fruit and John would perform the taste test--though this solution introduced more variables than Sherlock would have liked, he found it hard to complain when John was on his knees fellating him with enthusiastic aplomb.

Of course, there are times when John insists on being a complete spoilsport for reasons that thoroughly elude Sherlock. John refuses to let Sherlock observe him as he watches porn and masturbates. He won't disclose the number of sexual partners he's had. He declines to measure the volume of come inside Sherlock after their longer sessions of _unwinding,_ during which he'd come inside Sherlock multiple times and use an anal plug in between rounds. He won't penetrate Sherlock with anything not explicitly intended for penetration. And, most infuriatingly, he refuses to let Sherlock measure his cock (not that Sherlock can't eyeball a good estimate, but he'd really love to measure it based on a varied series of stimuli, but alas, it was a hard _no)._

The occasional rejections would be endlessly frustrating, were it not for the fact that John occasionally brings a rather brilliant idea of his own to the table.

It's one such occasion on an idle Thursday night. Rosie had actually gone down without a fuss for once, so they'd decided to indulge in a quiet evening in--which for John meant dinner and a movie. It was John's turn to pick and he'd chosen curry and _Y Tu Mamá También,_ which Sherlock had never heard of (unsurprising; he'd calculated that it had come out when he was 25, so he'd probably been far more invested in securing his next fix than purveying arthouse cinema), but it seemed unobjectionable enough. 

They'd assumed their standard Movie Night position; John's chair had been temporarily budged over to provide a clear sightline from the sofa to the television, the coffee table was strewn with empty carryout containers, and Sherlock was contentedly leaning back in John's arms as they both stretched out the length of the sofa, John's back against the armrest and his legs bracketing Sherlock as Sherlock leaned back against his chest. Sherlock had settled in for what he assumed would be a lovely enough (if slightly boring) evening--plus, if he behaved and played his cards right (and made sure John stayed awake), there was the potential for sex afterwards, which was incentive enough to remain politely silent as the movie played out. So far, the evening was going exactly as expected.

What was perhaps slightly _unexpected_ was exactly how... well, _sexy_ the movie was. Sherlock didn't need to be the world's greatest detective to note the way John was shifting uncomfortably behind him as yet another (rather graphic) love scene began to play out. Increased heart rate, quickened breathing, the way John's arms pulled him just a little bit tighter to his chest--John Watson was unmistakably aroused.

And Sherlock himself wasn't immune; though he usually found himself oblivious to most sexually-charged situations involving strangers (especially between actors; wasn't it achingly obvious to everyone else that they were faking?), he was admittedly intrigued by what was observing play out on the screen. He sighs and relaxes further into John's arms.

"Mmm." There's a wet press of lips against the side of Sherlock's neck.

 _Yes._

This evening was shaping up to be rather unboring, after all.

Sherlock shifts slightly and issues a hum of approval, letting his hands wander to where John's thighs are bracketing him before running his fingers up and down the glorious expanse of muscle there, contained only by John's rather hideous flannel pajama bottoms. He drops his head back to John's shoulder and closes his eyes.

John takes the hint and begins to kiss his neck with more fervent intent, licking and nipping his way up to the spot just behind Sherlock's ear that he knows makes Sherlock shiver and twitch. Sherlock moans as his cock begins to harden, tenting the front of his pajama bottoms as John works over his neck with practiced precision. His teeth close around Sherlock's earlobe.

The next thing Sherlock knows, John's hands are working their way beneath the hemline of his worn grey t-shirt, slowly dragging the fabric up his chest to reveal his pale torso and the peaked buds of his nipples, which harden as they're exposed to the open air.

"Up you get, lean forward." John presses Sherlock upright just long enough to pull the grey shirt off of Sherlock entirely before letting him resume his reclined position. Slowly, reverently, his fingers begin to trace light patterns across Sherlock's goosefleshed skin.

It feels like John's fingertips are lit with fire.

Sherlock arches and preens, seeking out more contact, and John grins and chuckles as he continues to press kisses the length of Sherlock's neck.

On the screen, the actors have concluded their lovemaking and are now engaged heavily in rapid-fire dialogue, which Sherlock summarily phases out. Luckily, John seems to be on the same page; Sherlock can feel his hardness pressing against his lower back as his hands continue their tour of Sherlock's exposed skin.

"So I've been thinking," John murmurs into Sherlock's ear, his fingertips skimming over his erect nipples. 

Sherlock rolls into his touch. "Is that so? That's a fascinating new turn-up..."

"Oy!" John pinches Sherlock's ribs in feigned annoyance and Sherlock hisses through his teeth before dissolving into giggles. "You are such a _prat_ sometimes, I swear." Sherlock hums in affirmation as John's hands meander down to tease along the waistband of his pajama bottoms. Sherlock's hips undulate of their own accord, his erection twitching earnestly in anticipation of John's attention.

John suddenly pulls his hands back to run his fingers lightly up Sherlock's sides, and Sherlock whimpers at the loss.

"You know, I've half a mind not to tell you what I was thinking about at all, if you're just going to sass me about it."

"Mmm. Sorry, John. Please. I'd be most delighted to hear your undoubtedly illustrious thoughts."

"Good. So as I was saying before I was _so rudely interrupted,_ I was thinking..." (John's fingers trail from Sherlock's sides to his stomach, where they begin to make their way up to his sternum with maddening slowness) "...about just how _sensitive_ your nipples are."

A shiver runs up Sherlock's spine. His nipples _are_ incredibly sensitive. His brain helpfully conjures up the memories from their recent holiday in Brighton, during which John had ordered Sherlock to remain motionless on the hotel bed as he tortured his nipples with ice and a pair of clothes pegs until Sherlock's brain had gone offline entirely. The agony of it was a pleasure unlike anything he'd previously experienced.

"Mmm. Yes, they're... _very_ sensitive, nnngh, _John..."_ John's fingers have found their way to Sherlock areola, around which he's tracing lazy circles.

"Exactly. Which got me to wondering: do you think you could come from nipple stimulation alone?"

The idea ignites in Sherlock's brain like rubidium in water.

"I...I don't know." Those are the only words he can muster; his consciousness suddenly awash in a tidal wave of dopamine.

"Would you like to do a little experiment and find out?"

"Oh God, yes."

"Mmm. _Good."_ With that, John is planting another trail of kisses along the length of Sherlock's neck, all the while his fingers continue to trace light circles around his pecs.

It's almost cruel, the things John can do to him, Sherlock thinks as John moves his fingers at an infuriatingly glacial pace across the exposed expanse of Sherlock's chest. It's simply _not fair_ that somehow John seemed to come equipped with the codes to crack every last one of Sherlock's defenses, reducing him to a shuddering pile of _want_ though nothing more than some light petting on the sofa during Movie Night.

It should be humiliating.

But instead, it's the purest freedom that Sherlock has ever known.

John takes his sweet time, and Sherlock lets himself drift in the sensation of John's strong, firm hands caressing every inch of flesh at his disposal. By the time John actually runs his fingers experimentally over Sherlock's nipples, Sherlock is so turned on that he can't resist the urge to thrust upwards, helplessly humping the air and issuing a low whine.

John's hands freeze in place. "Oh, dear. We can't have that, can we? If you're able to get friction from the fabric of your pajamas, that will completely throw off our results, won't it?"

"Nnngh, _please."_

"Help me out, Sherlock. You're the scientist here. Do you think we ought to remove your pajama bottoms, just to ensure the validity of our results?"

"Yes, okay, whatever you want, John, just... don't stop."

John chuckles, the vibrations in his chest a soothing anchor against Sherlock's back. John's hands make their way down to the waistband of Sherlock's pajamas, and he hooks his thumbs in as Sherlock raises his hips, then pulls them until they're midway down Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock's erection twitches in the the cool air of the sitting room, obscenely red and exposed.

"Mmm, Sherlock. You look so lovely, Christ. You're so hard just from this. You're brilliant, fantastic, God, so perfect."

Sherlock relaxes into John's praise and all but melts back into his arms. He loves it when John exposes him like this while John remains fully-dressed; it makes him feel wanton and debauched and deliciously naughty in all the right ways.

John's voice is low and dangerous in his ear. "Wish I could touch you right now. Hell, wish I could fuck you." Sherlock gasps and spreads his legs just a little at the insinuation, but he's restricted by his blasted pajamas around his thighs and the limited width of the sofa. "But that's not what we're doing tonight, is it? We have to keep things professional. For science."

Sherlock moans and arches and he can practically _feel_ the lecherous grin on John's face as his fingers make their way back to Sherlock's chest.

Slowly, gently, he takes Sherlock's nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, and gives them both a light tweak.

It's nothing. It should be nothing. But somehow knowing that this would be the extent of his stimulation for this evening makes this simplest of acts intensely erotic. Sherlock gasps and grips John's thighs, his knuckles whitening with the effort.

John proceeds diligently from there. He alternates pinches with light twists, occasionally dialing it back to simply run his fingers around Sherlock's areola before redoubling his efforts with delicate skill. Just when Sherlock feels all but certain his chest is about to burst into flames, John withdraws his fingers to wet them with his tongue, then begins to gently stroke the inflamed buds in soothing circles.

Sherlock has lost his damn mind. It's as though the entire universe has collapsed in on itself and the only thing he can process is the burn in his chest and the aching, throbbing, incessant _need_ to come.

A string of precome leaks from the tip of his cock and begins to pool on his quivering abdomen.

"Oh, yes, Sherlock, so good. You're getting so close, I can feel it. Christ, I think you really might do this."

"God. John. _Soclose."_ Sherlock can barely string two words together, but he feels compelled to communicate to John what he wants, what he _needs._ "God, don't stop, please, don't stop, John, please, oh God, don't stop, don't stop..."

His cock twitches and throbs and emits another string of precome. He can feel his balls tightening. God, was this really going to happen?

"Yes, come on, Sherlock. You can do this. Come on." With that, John withdraws his fingers, rewets them, and returns them to Sherlock's nipples to twist them ruthlessly.

Sherlock grunts and moans. He's close, God, he's _so close,_ he can practically _taste_ it, he just needs... he just needs...

John's fingernails dig in mercilessly to his inflamed buds.

Sherlock's eyes fly open. He comes.

"Holy shit. _Holy shit."_ John's voice sounds completely awestruck. Sherlock's cock is expelling spurt after spurt of come across his abdomen and chest, completely unstimulated, as John continues to pluck his nipples with expert precision.

After what feels like an eternity, the contractions cease, and Sherlock slumps bonelessly back into John's arms.

"Oh my God, Sherlock. I didn't really think... holy _shit."_

"Mmmm. Had to. For science."

"I'm... that was... amazing. Oh my _God,_ Sherlock. Is it... are you... can I just..." Sherlock's attention is suddenly drawn to the hardness of John's erection pressing into his lower back. John thrusts up experimentally. "Is this alright?"

"Yes, go ahead."

John doesn't wait for any further reassurance. He wraps his arms around Sherlock and holds him tight as he ruts against his back, thighs straining, breath coming in wet heaves.

In a matter of strokes, it's over. John comes with a satisfied moan, his thrusts turning uneven and desperate as he spends himself in his pajamas. He sinks his teeth gently into Sherlock's shoulder as he comes down, riding the aftershocks, and Sherlock moans in affirmation.

They lay like that, shivering and spent, as on screen the credits begin to roll.

Finally, John shifts and forces Sherlock up into a sitting position as he attempts to extricate himself from the sofa. Sherlock grumbles in protest, but takes John's hand when it's offered and allows himself to be pulled to his feet--the sitting room was growing even chillier in the late hour, and the congealing come smattering his stomach and chest was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

They shower together in companionable silence, rinsing away the evidence of the evening's activities in between soft kisses and shy smiles. John braves the frigid bedroom to go fetch them fresh pajamas out of the wardrobe while Sherlock basks in the warm steam of the bathroom until he returns. They re-dress, Sherlock forgoing a shirt altogether (there's no way his nipples could stand the chafing) in favour of just his dressing gown and silk bottoms, while John dons a new, equally hideous pair of flannel bottoms (where on earth did he find these things, honestly, it's a mystery to Sherlock) and a thin ARMY t-shirt which, Sherlock notes, makes his chest look quite ravishing, a fact he elects not to withhold from John.

"Oh, is that so?"

Sherlock nods. "It's a fact."

"A scientific fact?"

"It is, objectively. You can trust my opinion. I am a scientist, after all."

John rolls his eyes and reaches for his toothbrush, and Sherlock sidles up beside him to follow suit.

Nighttime preparations complete, John turns to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Alright, I'm off to bed. You joining?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not for now. Work to do."

"Work?"

Sherlock gives John an exasperated glare. "Surely you've not forgotten we've just completed a very important experiment. It's essential that I record the data while it's all still fresh in my mind."

"Ah, of course. For science." He steps forward to ruffle Sherlock's curls and plant a light kiss on on his lips before turning to the bedroom. "Don't stay up too late."

"Goodnight, John."

"Night, love."

Sherlock makes his way down the darkened hallway back to the sitting room and pulls out his lockbox.

And suddenly, it's as if no time has passed, and he's alone in the flat the night of his return, bleeding and broken, his back screaming in agony from the fresh whipmarks burned across it, the pain multiplied tenfold from the impact on the floor when John had tackled him in the middle of the restaurant. He's lost and scared and so goddamn _alone._

But no, _no._ He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before re-opening them. 

There are empty carryout containers on the coffee table, evidence of a good meal shared. In the corner is Rosie's playpen and shelves crammed with dozens of toys, evidence of a child adored. And in his hand is a notebook labeled _John,_ evidence of a man well-loved.

It's all the evidence he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good grief, I'm all like, "Let's write some one-shots without any angst!" and then my brain is like pornpornpornANGST. OH WELL. Hope you enjoyed! Leave questions! Leave comments! I'm listening!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet morning on Baker Street.

Sherlock opens his eyes in the dim morning light and is pleased to find John shifting restlessly in bed beside him. He has no idea what time John had returned home the night before; he'd gone out to meet up with Lestrade for "a pint or two" and had sent a text around midnight saying he'd be late--Sherlock had given up on him entirely at around 1 o'clock and gone to bed himself, exhausted from an evening of entertaining Rosie alone.

But it seems John had returned home no worse for the wear, and according to his deductions, was about four minutes from waking.

Sure enough, moments later John's eyes flutter open.

"Morning."

John starts, then moans quietly. "Jesus, Sherlock. How are you up already? What time is it?"

"6:12."

"Mmmrh. Right." John shuffles out of bed and plods off towards the bathroom.

Sherlock's familiar with John's post-bender routine; he'd wake early, brush his teeth, chug two glasses of water and take two paracetamol, then go back to sleep for another hour or two.

Sure enough, he hears John going through the motions--strangely, minus the paracetamol-- before clambering back into bed and pulling Sherlock to his chest. Sherlock huffs and relaxes into his arms.

"Rosie's not up yet, is she? Sort of dreading the wake-up call." John's voice is still thick with sleep.

"No, haven't heard her on the monitor. Need me to take her this morning?"

"No, 'm not hungover, really. I didn't drink that much, just stayed out late."

Sherlock's interest is piqued. "Is that so?"

John peers down at him. "Yeah, why?"

"Does that mean you may be amenable to a different sort of wake-up call?" He and John haven't had much alone time the past few weeks, and though they've managed a few quick one-offs in the shower before John went to work or at night after Rosie went down, they hadn't had time for penetrative intercourse in a while, and Sherlock is more than keen to rectify the situation.

"Mmm, that sounds lovely, but Greg's kipping on the sofa--he had a lot more to drink than me, didn't want to put him in a taxi to get home."

"I can be quiet."

John snorts affably. "Oh, that'd be rich. You, quiet during sex? What's next, ditching the Belstaff? Shaving your head? I'm trying to think of something that I'd find more out of character."

"I _can_ be quiet John, there's just normally no incentive to be. But desperate times call for desperate measures."

"Oh, we're considering these desperate times now, are we? Two weeks without a proper rogering and you're willing to forego your usual enthusiastic vocalisations entirely? Perhaps I should cut you off more often."

"You wouldn't dare. And I can control myself perfectly well, John. I'll think of it as an experiment."

"Oh, an experiment, you say?" John rolls Sherlock onto his back and props himself up on his forearm before leaning in for a kiss. "You know how much I love it when you make sacrifices for science."

"Exactly. In the name of science, I will remain completely mute throughout our encounter. Lestrade will be none the wiser."

John moans under his breath and closes his eyes. "Christ, the things you talk me into. Fine, let's do this, but _one peep_ out of you and this stops entirely, and you're not getting any for the rest of the week. Lestrade is our _colleague_ and our _friend,_ I refuse to let you scandalise him for your own selfish whims. Agreed?"

Sherlock nods.

And the next second John is on top of him, his weight warm and welcome as Sherlock wraps his legs around him enthusiastically, kissing him with single-minded intent.

In no time at all, John's worked his way from Sherlock's lips to his neck, Sherlock arching and sighing beneath him as he begins to gently thrust. They're both almost fully hard now, lengths meeting through the thin fabric of their pajama bottoms, the friction soft and delicious. More than anything Sherlock wants to moan, but he keeps his mind focused on the task at hand: _he must not make a sound._

This proves to be nearly impossible as John redirects his attentions to nibbling Sherlock's left earlobe while raising himself off of him just enough to free his eager cock from the confines of his pajamas. Then John pulls out his own cock as well and takes them both in his firm, strong hand, stroking them diligently as his tongue and teeth do their damndest to drive Sherlock out of his mind.

All too soon, John is pulling away and sitting back on his heels. 

"Clothes. Off. Now." Sherlock scrambles to comply as John divests himself of his own, and moments later he's back on top of him and Sherlock is drowning in the intoxicating sensation of skin on skin.

Why the hell did he ever think this was a good idea? He wants to be groaning, begging, making wild demands, but _no._ John's somehow talked him into agreeing to be _polite_ and _considerate_ and Christ, maybe he was right, next thing Sherlock would be foregoing the deerstalker and wearing jeans in public and--

"How do you want me to take you?" John's voice is barely a whisper in his ear.

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but catches himself--then shoots John a dirty glare; had John just seriously tried to _trick_ him? John laughs at him and waggles his eyebrows. "Almost gotcha."

Sherlock rolls his eyes pushes John off and turns around to get on his hands and knees, presenting his arse for John's enjoyment.

"Mmmm, alright then." John keeps his voice low and his right hand begins to massage Sherlock's pert cheeks as he rummages through the nightstand drawer with his left before coming up with the lube.

Sherlock is more than ready to get on with things, but John seems to have different plans entirely. He preps Sherlock AGONISINGLY slowly, first simply tracing his rim with one lubed digit, barely the faintest of brushes along the sensitive skin. By the time he actually slips the tip of his finger inside, Sherlock is about to lose it entirely, Lestrade's innocence be damned.

But John knows just how to play him. Every time Sherlock is about to give up and give John a piece of his mind, John pushes along _just_ far enough to temporarily placate him. By the time he's got three fingers inside him, Sherlock feels so strung-out he wishes he could scream.

But he doesn't.

He drops down to his elbows and sinks his teeth into his fist as he feels the head of John's cock prodding him open. He spreads his legs further and presses back, delighting in the sensation as his body welcomes John inside. John's cock feels hot and thick and so fucking _perfect_ and all Sherlock wants in this mortal world is to tell him so, but _no._ That would violate the terms of the experiment. So he rolls his hips just the way he knows drives John mad, and grins to himself as he hears John gasp behind him.

John doesn't fuck him this morning. He makes love to him, moving in and out of him in slow, indulgent slides, hands resting lightly on Sherlock's slim hips as he leans forward to press soft kisses along the length of Sherlock's spine. Sherlock is suddenly reminded of the night he lost his virginity to John; John had been so gentle with him, so careful as he thrust into him from behind, every action reverent and sweet. His head swims with affection at the memory.

He heaves a ragged breath and exhales slowly, willing himself to remain silent and calm, letting the sensations wash through him in undulating waves, the complete and total satisfaction of being claimed by John Watson entirely.

Then John changes his angle of penetration so that he's brushing Sherlock's prostate with every stroke. Sherlock starts and tenses, every synapse in his brain willing him to cry out with pleasure, but he forces himself to stay in control. John's left hand leaves his hip and moments later it's wrapping around Sherlock's cock, warm and slick with lube, stroking him in time with John's thrusts.

Sherlock begins to tremble. The sensation is incredible and the desire to revert to his most basic instincts is all but overwhelming. He closes his eyes and twists the sheets in his hands and begins to move, alternating thrusts forward into John's fist and back onto his relentless cock. John presses a kiss against the back of his neck, and twists his wrist _just so._

Sherlock comes in long, delicious spurts, spending himself over John's fingers and onto the sheets as he heaves in wet gasps, his body clenching down around John's cock in a way that makes him feel impossibly large. He can hear John's breath catch behind him as he feels Sherlock release, and he redoubles his efforts on Sherlock's cock to coax him through the aftershocks of orgasm until he's entirely spent.

All Sherlock wants is to collapse onto the bed and bask in the afterglow, but he wills himself to remain engaged. He raises himself up off his forearms and grips the headboard, an angle which is less pleasurable for him but provides John the deepest angle of penetration.

Behind him, John hums in affirmation and grips his hips firmly before starting to thrust with powerful urgency.

Sherlock bites his lip. He loves it when John rails him hard like this after he's just come, and his natural inclination is to wail and moan and narrate to John in gloriously explicit terms just how _goddamn good_ his cock feels inside him when he's pounding his fucking brains out but _fuck, no, he has to keep quiet, he promised he'd be good, he promised..._

He flexes his arms and focuses all of his energy on meeting John enthusiastically thrust for thrust, arching his back just the way he knows John likes, making the muscles in his back ripple and tense for John's voyeuristic pleasure.

Suddenly, a shout rips through the silence of the morning and Sherlock feels himself being filled with come, John plunging frantically into him in deep, vigorous thrusts. He braces himself against the onslaught and spreads his legs as far as he can to allow John to ride out every last shiver of pleasure.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall is unmistakable. The both freeze, quivering in post-coital exhaustion, John's cock still twitching feebly inside Sherlock's hole.

"Oy, John, you alright?"

A beat of silence. "...Um, yeah, fine, Greg. Just... foot cramp. Think I'm dehydrated from last night."

"...Right, okay."

"Look, I just got up, I'll be out in a sec and I'll start some coffee, yeah?"

"Yeah, alright." Lestrade's footsteps recede down the hall back to the sitting room.

Sherlock hisses as John unceremoniously pulls out and scrambles off the bed, frantically rummaging about for his discarded pants, pajama bottoms, and t-shirt.

Sherlock rolls onto his side to languish alone in the filthy sheets. "Are you just going to leave me here?" He's whining, he knows it, but he's thoroughly unamused at being so callously discarded; usually after they make love, John will spend ages cuddling him and showering him with praise before insisting on fastidiously checking over his hole for any signs of damage. Sherlock pretends to be inconvenienced by the lot of it, but secretly he adores it, and he suspects John knows as much. It's part of their little routine, perfected after countless rounds of enthusiastic practice.

"We have company, Sherlock. I'm going to go be a good host."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Fine. I'm going to put my plug in and stay here. You can think about that whist you chat up Graham or whatever his name is over coffee in our sitting room. But I'd encourage you to be right quick about it; I've another experiment I urgently need to conduct."

John has gone beet red, flushed with arousal despite having just come moments before. "And what might that be?"

"Exactly how loud I can scream while you fuck me before Mrs. Turner calls the cops."

"Jesus Christ." John rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he fetches his dressing gown and slippers, but he does pause to watch as Sherlock makes rather a show of slicking up the plug and sliding it between his own cheeks, exposing himself for John's examination before pulling the duvet back up and snuggling into the pillows. 

John huffs out a short breath. "Sherlock Holmes, you are an absolute menace." Sherlock shrugs innocently and bats his eyes. "Stay where you are. I'll be back as soon as I can." John turns and plods into the bathroom to do a hasty wash-up before making his way to the kitchen.

Sherlock stretches luxuriously and then curls up to wait. He drifts back to sleep with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY I wrote a whole installment without angst! Somebody get me a cookie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A casual interlude leads to enlightening revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a few requests for an aftercare-heavy installment, and your wish is my command! 
> 
> Please do note the added tags: this chapter includes mentions of clinical depression, addiction, and PTSD. It also ventures into a much more intense D/S dynamic than the previous two chapters of this installment. 
> 
> This chapter also makes some brief references to my "In Between" series, but they're incidental; it will still make sense if you haven't read it all.
> 
> As a side note, this entry was inspired by the lovely (and coincidentally aptly-named) song "I Don't Mind" by Joseph. Feel free to give it a listen before you embark.
> 
> And as always, enjoy!

To the casual outside observer, it would seem obvious that between the two of them, Sherlock is the one with Issues. Not just his anti-social tendencies or his interpersonal cluelessness or his occasional casual cruelty, but his Dark Moods and his Danger Nights and everything in between. He has a rather public history of addiction, five trips to rehab under his belt, and a chip on his shoulder to prove it. He is well aware that he comes off as patently insane to most people who cross his path, and he diligently ignores it as they shoot John sympathetic glances and shake their heads, baffled as to how such a _nice man_ ended up with a sociopath like him.

What they all failed to see (or rather, observe) is that John Watson came with his very own set of _Issues,_ too; he was just far, far better at concealing them.

Their triggers are different. Well, to be perfectly honest, Sherlock isn't entirely sure exactly what his own triggers _are:_ certainly in his younger years he could be pushed over the edge by a perceived slight or a failed relationship, a row with his mother or some of Mycroft's meddling. But even in his childhood he could remember the Dark Moods descending like storm clouds on the horizon, apropos of nothing, a menace looming ever closer, unavoidable and sure.

Now that he's older, he objectively understands the root cause of it: the delicate balance of serotonin and norepinephrine, the intertwining roles of the amygdala and thalamus and hippocampus, the science behind the seductive allure of dopamine. He understands that his triggers may not be tangible at all; a repressed memory or a wayward neurotransmitter could throw things off course as easily as a botched case. But he weathers the ups and downs as best he can, John his beacon in the storm on even his darkest of days, steady and sure.

John's triggers are simple and easier to explain: Loud noises in unexpected places. A sudden influx of people in a confined area. The smell of formaldehyde. Firefights on the telly. To the untrained eye, his discomfort would be invisible, but Sherlock could see it every time, clear as day: the lines around his eyes would become tight and pronounced, his lips drawing into a thin line, increased perspiration, dryness of the mouth, his gait growing ever so slightly uneven as he hastily removed himself from the situation. Yet he was the perfect image of masculine stoicism even in his profound discomfort--a military man, through and through.

Sherlock had noticed John's susceptibility for the first time years ago, soon after Moriarty had blown the hell out of the building across from their flat. The construction crews had descended on the place after the explosion, and had proceeded to make enough noise that the whole block sounded like a war zone for two weeks straight.

John spent the entire two weeks in a heightened stage of agitation. At first Sherlock thought he was simply sleep-deprived, or grouchy, or sick of Sherlock's shenanigans altogether, but he soon noticed the strong correlation between particularly startling blasts of construction noise and John's mental state. From there, he began to keep tabs.

The other triggers he'd identified gradually throughout the years, as well as John's reaction to them. Though John would remain calm in the moment, for hours and sometimes days afterwards, he was prone to angry outbursts and insomnia. He drank more than usual and spoke, on average, 600 fewer words per day. His attention span would shorten, and he'd forsake his usual crime novels for staring blankly at the telly, eyes unseeing, lost in his own thoughts. 

Luckily John's encounters with situations that triggered him were easily mitigated to be few and far between, and for the most part, they could carry on their daily lives without impact.

But that had all changed eight days ago, when Mrs. Turner had shown up to notify them that she was renovating her flat.

"It may be a bit loud for a few days, dears, so sorry to inconvenience everyone, but really, it must be done some time," she'd prattled. Sherlock nodded solemnly as he bounced Rosie on his hip, issuing a sideways glance at John, who gave Mrs. Turner a tight smile.

"Oh, no bother," Mrs. Hudson replied. "These two are up at all hours anyway. It's a wonder Rosie and I get any sleep at all with them around."

Mrs. Turner had smiled and taken her leave, but not before depositing a tray of freshly-made teacakes on the coffee table as a peace offering.

Unsurprisingly, the teacakes didn't help. By the end of the first day of construction, John was wound so tight Sherlock could see his jaw working as he ground his teeth in rigid silence, spine ramrod straight, while he attempted to feed Rosie her lunch. 

So Sherlock stepped in and relieved him of his feeding duty, explaining that he urgently needed John to run to the shops to pick up a few things for a new experiment he was working on. He'd made a list of the most obscure items he could think of (the ones he knew were tucked away on the most hard-to-find shelves in the Tesco). John had agreed to go before Sherlock had even finished making the request, and was out the door, list in hand, without so much as a goodbye. He was gone for two hours, and the construction crew was blessedly absent by the time he arrived back home.

But that was just the first day. By the end of the seventh, Sherlock can tell that John is nearing his breaking point. Despite the fact that he'd been out of the flat three days that week to go to work at the surgery, the constant disruptions on the days he was home were enough to continue his downward spiral. Sherlock notes he's sleeping poorly; four nights in a row, John would wander into the sitting room at around 2 o'clock in the morning to join Sherlock (who was forgoing sleep per usual), sweat-soaked and shaking. He never spoke; he'd just sit in silence in his chair while Sherlock played his violin, or turn on the telly and tune out entirely if Sherlock was occupied with an experiment. He'd shuffle back to the bedroom at about 4am and emerge the next morning, eyes puffy with fatigue.

John didn't drink to excess anymore. That, it seemed, he'd given up sometime in the two years that Sherlock was gone. Sherlock had never asked about the details, but he was glad to see that John had kicked the habit before it had become truly problematic--though Sherlock could never be quite sure just how problematic it had become following his own death; he didn't have the heart to ask Mrs. Hudson or Molly. Sherlock was fairly sure he couldn't deal with the guilt if he knew the answer.

So at least John wasn't drinking. But he also wasn't sleeping, he was biting Sherlock's head off every time he tried to engage him in conversation, and he was even being short with Rosie, a sign Sherlock took to mean that surely things had gone far enough.

It's near dinner time on the evening of the seventh day of construction that a particularly loud bang emitting from next door startles John to the point he drops Rosie's jar of baby food, shattering the glass and spraying pureed squash across the kitchen floor.

Sherlock expects him to swear, shout, maybe going on a blustering diatribe about public decency and respecting one's neighbours. But instead, John simply stands up, walks to the sitting room, and grabs his jacket. He turns to Sherlock, who'd been immersed in a scientific article on his phone and had barely registered the racket next door.

"I can't do this."

Sherlock looks up from his phone to where John is standing at the door.

"Sorry?"

"I can't do this. I'm going out." And with that, he turns and walks out the door, leaving Rosie wailing in her high chair and a mess of squash and glass on the floor.

It's so out of character for him that Sherlock has to work to tamp down the feeling of panic rising in his throat as he scrubs the kitchen floor whilst intermittently feeding Rosie bites of a freshly-opened jar of peas. Surely John hadn't just... _left_ him, right? He'd be back that night, perhaps even in time to help put Rosie down, then maybe afterwards Sherlock could relax him with a blow job while they watched that new nature programme on telly that he'd been going on about last week.

But Rosie's bedtime comes and goes, and while she falls asleep without a struggle, Sherlock feels increasingly anxious with each passing hour. He tries texting John but quickly discovers he'd left his mobile on the kitchen counter. He contemplates asking Mycroft, but thinks better of it--he doesn't want to deal with the subsequent meddlesome inquiries. He thinks about asking Mrs. Hudson to come by for a cuppa, but then decides against it; she'd surely ask about the nature of their domestic, and John's PTSD feels like far too personal a subject to broach with her without his consent.

Sleep is out of the question. He tries to start a new experiment, but he bollockses up his measurements beyond repair within the first five minutes. He resorts to cleaning the kitchen (including the fridge) top-to-bottom; a task which he can say with near-certainty he has never done, in all his years at Baker Street.

It's nearly 3am and he's just scrubbing the oven rack with steel wool when the front door opens. He resists the urge to leap to his feet and bound to the front door like an abandoned puppy; regardless of John's mental state, walking out on Sherlock in that situation without so much as a word should in fact have left him feeling slighted. He attempts to suppress the overwhelming feeling of relief surging in his chest.

John makes his way to the kitchen and surveys the scene, blinking incredulously. Sherlock glares at him from where he's knelt in front of the stove, covered in oven grime.

"You... cleaned?"

"I was bored."

"Right. Okay, I'm going to bed."

Sherlock rises to his feet and in three long strides he's toe-to-toe with John. He rakes him over with his eyes, taking in every clue in turn.

John had been out walking. He'd made it as far as the river (surprising, considering that his leg is bothering him) before turning back to stop at the late-night cafe by the Yard that they love, grabbing a coffee--a terrible idea this time of the evening, there's no way he'd be sleeping well tonight. Then he'd turned West, through St. James's Park all the way to Hyde Park, where he'd spent some time sitting on a bench before finally turning towards home. 

Sherlock sniffs. No hint of alcohol.

"Fine." Sherlock turns and resumes his position in front of the stove.

For a moment, he thinks John is going to say something. But instead he just shuffles off to bed.

Sherlock doesn't sleep at all that night. He finishes cleaning the kitchen and then takes a pass at the sitting room, working himself into a frenzy of misdirected energy, at a loss for what to do.

How the hell was he supposed to make John feel better? All he wanted was to let him know that he _understood,_ that he _cared,_ that feeling out-of-sorts was _alright;_ hell, Sherlock understood better than anyone how it felt to be victim to his own irrational impulses.

At 5:27AM, he has an idea.

A fantastic, amazing, perfect idea.

He's asleep on the sofa by 5:32.

John's working a shift at the surgery that day, and Sherlock doesn't even wake when he leaves. By the time he rises it's nearly 11, and he has to rush a bit to make it through the series of three experiments plus the additional research he'd scheduled for the day. But by the time 6:00 rolls around and he hears John's footsteps on the stairs, he's ready.

John opens the door to find Sherlock kneeling in the centre of the room. In his hands are two thick belts--the ones John most commonly uses to restrain Sherlock when they're _unwinding._ He's still fully-dressed, but he's unbuttoned his shirt just a hint further than normal to expose John's dog tags resting on his sternum.

John stops dead in his tracks.

"What's this?"

"Hello, John."

The expression on John's face is unreadable. "Where's Rosie?"

"Molly agreed to keep her overnight. We're meeting them at the park tomorrow morning." 

John takes a few slow steps closer to Sherlock. He licks his lips as he peers down at him.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm waiting for you to dominate me."

The shiver that runs up John's spine is unmistakable, though his expression remains neutral.

There's a long, pregnant pause.

Sherlock feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest. He's propositioned John for sessions on occasion before, but it's usually either John taking the lead or they both tumble into it as a mutually-understood inevitability as soon as a case is concluded. What he's doing tonight is uncharted waters.

John's eyes narrow and his pupils dilate. His lips quirk up into a smirk. When he speaks, his voice is low and deliberate. "Is that so?"

_Gotcha._

Sherlock fights back the urge to grin. "Yes, John." He holds up the belts in his outstretched palms, a sign of supplication. John takes them in a measured movement before stepping back, fingers tightening around them.

"Good. Have you showered?"

"Not yet, John."

"Go. You have seven minutes. Don't prep yourself, I'll be doing that part. No touching your cock. There's no need to put on clothes."

Sherlock rises gracefully to his feet. "Yes, John. Where should I meet you?"

Panic flicks across John's face for a moment, and Sherlock wants to bite his tongue; He'd just sprung a session on John completely blind; how the hell was John supposed to have a game plan put together already?

Luckily, John recovers quickly. "I'll be deciding that while you're washing up. Just come find me when you're done."

"Yes, John."

Sherlock goes through the motions of his shower in the dreamy, half-conscious state he sinks into every time they do this. He'd been looking forward to it all afternoon, and the fact that John seemed amenable was such a lucky turn-up, he finds himself more eager to submit than usual; most of the time he wants to resist for a bit first, make John work to take him down, but today he finds he just wants to _let go._

He emerges from the bathroom clean and dry precisely 6 minutes and 42 seconds later. He checks the bedroom for John but finds it empty, so he makes his way down the hall and finds John standing in the kitchen.

He turns and smiles as soon as Sherlock enters. "Hello, love. You're looking gorgeous." John's eyes rake over Sherlock's nude form before coming to rest on his dog tags, which still hang around his neck. 

Sherlock smiles. God, John is so _good_ to him when he's about to dominate him; it makes him want to go to his knees at John's feet right then and there... but he remains standing and instead issues a bashful smile in return.

John continues. "I have something new planned for you, sweetheart. Do you know what that means?"

Sherlock nods and recites their list of rules. "Say 'stop' if I want to stop. We can slow down if I need to. We can take a break if I want one and resume later. You won't hit me or cut off my air flow entirely" (the air flow part is new--they've just started experimenting with breathplay and are still testing out their limits, so he feels it's important to include). "Otherwise, we stop when you say we're done."

John grins at Sherlock as though he's just recited pi to the 50th digit. "Perfect, sweetheart. God, you're so good for me, so amazing. Brilliant." Sherlock feels warm and tingly inside, and he can feel his cock swiftly rising to attention with John's prodigious praise.

"Alright, love. Come over here, right by the table. You did such a nice job cleaning this up, I can't help but want to get it a little dirty again. What do you think?"

"Yes, please, John."

"Good. Lie down on your back, face up. Hands up by your head."

Sherlock clambers onto the table feeling oddly clumsy. He lies down, bending his knees to place his feet on the surface as well, then positions his hands next to his head. John watches, his breath rate increasing, pupils dilating until it's nearly impossible to see the blue in a sea of black.

"Hold still. Be good for me, now." John produces the two belts, and one by one wraps them around Sherlock's forearm up to his wrist before securing the belt to the table leg below. By the time he's through, Sherlock is well-immobilized. He squirms slightly at the loss of control, but takes a deep breath and wills himself to relax into the sensation. The light from the fluorescent kitchen lamp above him makes him feel rather like a bug on a microscope lens. The room feels startlingly quiet.

"Lovely." John turns around to rummage for something he'd placed on the counter; Sherlock, in his altered state, hadn't even thought to do a sweep of the room when he'd walked in to see what John might be planning. He cranes his next to catch a glimpse.

John turns around. In his hands are two more belts. He approaches Sherlock slowly before placing a hand on his legs. "I'm going to tie up your legs now, sweetheart. Alright?"

Sherlock lets out a slow breath. "Yes, John." John's immobilized his legs only once before, during a particularly long and intense session of unwinding that Sherlock had requested as a birthday present. The sensation had been on the cusp of overwhelming, but tonight, he's desperate to give John whatever he wants.

John takes Sherlock's left leg and bends it up to Sherlock's chest, until his heel almost meets the back of his thigh. Then John wraps his leg with the belt, trapping it in its bent position, and secures the belt in place. The binding is tight enough to prevent Sherlock from extending his leg, but loose enough that his blood flow isn't restricted.

"Alright, sweetheart. Flex your foot?" Sherlock complies. "Lovely. Circulation alright?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Other side, now." He proceeds to bind Sherlocks' right leg in a similar fashion, then steps back to survey his work.

Sherlock is spread out and utterly immobilized, his arms securing him to the table and his legs of little use in their leather trappings. He whimpers and arches. John moans lightly.

"Oh, sweetheart. That's lovely. You're so lovely, so good for me" John approaches the table and kisses Sherlock deeply. He feels his own cock twitch against his stomach; he's long since reached full hardness; John makes him feel insatiable.

Finally, John pulls away.

"So, love. I've been thinking." He begins to pace slowly back and forth across the kitchen floor, eyes never leaving Sherlock's prone form, his tone deliberate and sure. "We had such a nice time performing that little experiment with your nipples a few weeks ago, didn't we?"

Sherlock issues a high whine in the back of his throat. John had made him come from nipple stimulation alone, a feat that Sherlock had previously thought impossible. Yet somehow John had taken him there. His cock twitches at the memory. "Yes, John."

"Well, that reminded me of another experiment we'd talked about a while ago. About your refractory period. Do you remember?"

Sherlock squirms in his bindings. He has a hazy recollection of this conversation, but he's pretty sure they'd had it in the middle of a session, some harmless dirty talk about future forays that had gone in one ear and out the other at the time. But now it appeared those chickens were coming home to roost.

"Is that a yes or a no, sweetheart?"

"I...I..." Sherlock struggles to verbalize his thoughts. "I...don't remember. I think you...I think you were fucking me at the time."

John laughs, bright and pure, and Sherlock can't help but smile in return. "Why, yes, I believe I was. So I'll refresh your memory: I'm going to see how many times I can make you come in an hour. I've done a bit of research on this, so I know what's average, but I believe _you,_ sweetheart, have never been average by any stretch of the word." Sherlock internally preens. "I also know what's exceptional. And I want nothing less than what's exceptional from you."

"Yes, John."

"Good. I'm going to get you prepped. Then we'll begin."

John preps him with clinical efficiency and a professional sense of detachment. He doesn't get anywhere near Sherlock's prostate; he simply lubes up his fingers, presses Sherlock's thighs back to his chest, and proceeds to penetrate him as though he's giving a patient an exam, with a look of mild disinterest on his face.

Sherlock lets out a huff of annoyance at being treated like some sort of scientific specimen, but John pays him no mind; he simply begins to scissor his fingers until Sherlock feels himself begin to relax.

Finally satisfied, John steps away and grabs the egg timer off the top of the stove. And next to it--the vibrator.

Sherlock's stomach lurches.

He both loves and loathes the vibrator with every fibre of his being. Though he loves the sensation of overstimulation it gives him, it has the capacity to reduce his orgasms to brutal, painful ordeals to be endured instead of enjoyed. Yet the feeling he has afterwards--of being so wrung-out and well-used and utterly spent... it's unlike anything else in John's repertoire. 

Sherlock swallows.

"Alright, sweetheart. So apparently the most common way to induce multiple orgasms in a man is through the use of a vibrator for prostate stimulation. That's a hypothesis we've already tested, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Yes, John."

"Good. So here's what's going to happen. I'm going to set the timer and begin inducing orgasms. I won't be removing the vibrator between emissions. If you need me to, I can stimulate your shaft at the same time; I won't consider that cheating, although some of the research did mention that it can lead to oversensitivity, so I won't be doing that unless you request it. Understood?"

"Yes, John."

"I'll record the number of orgasms and the time at which they occur as we go. That way you can enter the data into your notebook afterwards."

Sherlock is touched. "Th...Thank you, John."

"Of course, sweetheart. Now just lie back and relax. This may get... intense."

And with that, he winds up the egg timer, flicks the vibrator on, and presses it inside.

And oh, it is _bliss._ Sherlock absolutely adores prostate stimulation (one of the many rather surprising things he'd learned about himself only after taking up with John), and the introduction of the vibrator into his sexual repertoire had been a most pleasant turnabout indeed.

He moans and pulls his thighs up close to his chest, his hands straining slightly against the bindings as he struggles to bear down. John changes the angle and begins to press into him in slow, undulating thrusts.

"That's it, lovely, just like that. Christ, you're so hard, sweetheart, it looks like you're almost ready to come already."

Sherlock nods blearily. Just the foreplay alone when they're unwinding is usually enough to get him on-edge, and this direct stimulation is quickly pushing him towards release.

"Alright, sweetheart. Just relax. Let it happen." John runs a hand reassuringly up and down Sherlock's quivering torso as he continues to stare down at where he's penetrating his hole with the toy, cheeks flushed with desire.

"Oh! Oh!" Sherlock feels the familiar heat coiling at the base of his abdomen.

"That's it. Come on, now. Come on."

Everything implodes. His back arches to the extent that his wrists strain against their bindings. He feels his cock jerking as lines of come stripe his torso, his hole constricting rhythmically around the vibrator as it coaxes each shiver of pleasure out of him. Somewhere, distantly, he can hear John murmuring words of praise.

He collapses bonelessly back to the table, overheated and gasping for breath. He opens his eyes to the glare of the florescent light above him. Slowly, John's face swims into view.

"Sweetheart, that was perfect. Amazing. You're doing so well."

Sherlock smiles blearily up at him before issuing a sharp intake of breath. John has begun to thrust the vibrator again, directly stimulating his still-tender prostate. He lets out a shout and tries to flinch away.

John grabs his leg by the leather strap and pulls him bodily back down the table, into the vibrator's relentless path. "No, sweetheart. We've just started. You've got a long way to go."

Sherlock nods shakily and wills himself to relax as John proceeds to penetrate him with single-minded focus.

In what feels like an impossibly short amount of time, his cock has swollen to full-mast again. The vibrations from within him feel like they're reverberating throughout every cell in his body, and he's torn between leaning into the sensation and willing himself to escape it altogether.

John is dutifully encouraging. "Yes, love, look at you. Already hard again! So good for me, Christ, so perfect. Are you going to come again for me?"

Sherlock nods frantically. The desire to come has suddenly risen up inside of him with intense urgency, as though his body is attempting to be done with the process as quickly as possible in the hopes of experiencing some relief.

"John. _John."_

"Shhh, it's alright, here you go, sweetheart, I can see it coming, oh _yes,_ Sherlock, love, look at you! Oh _God,_ coming all over yourself, getting so messy just for me. That's it, that's it, shhh, you did it, love, you did it."

His cock finishes expending its second emission, and he slumps back to the table, moaning wantonly. He feels completely disorientated. John has given him multiple orgasms in quick succession before, and the sensation always takes him by surprise; after the second one his brain goes offline entirely, and he's left feeling stupid and needy, reverted to his most primitive state. All he knows is the heat in his body and _John John John._

John is relentless. Unlike in the past when he's left the vibrator unmoving while Sherlock recovered between rounds, this time he's continuing to press it in and out in solid, mechanical strokes. It's far, far too much.

Sherlock lets out a whine of discomfort and shifts on the table, but the bindings holding him in place offer no give. His back feels sweaty against the wood, and he vaguely wonders if his tailbone is going to be bruised tomorrow.

He summons all of his strength to lift his head slightly so that he can see where John is observing him from between his splayed legs. John tears his eyes away from Sherlock's hole just long enough to smile up at him wickedly before reverting his gaze to the task at hand. Sherlock's head falls back to the table with a moan.

He's not sure what's going to happen next. The few times John's pushed him to a third orgasm with the vibrator, he's fairly certain there had been a considerable refractory period between the second and third round (the exact amount of time was incalculable to his dopamine-drunk brain). But this time, John isn't interested in pleasure and mercy; he seems hellbent on wringing every last ounce of come out of Sherlock that he can, and Sherlock is completely helpless to fight it.

"Oh, that's it. There we go." John's voice sounds far away, but Sherlock tries his best to zero in on it. "Sweetheart, you're getting hard again. Can you feel it?"

Sherlock swallows hard. "Yes, John." His voice sounds thick and miserable even in his own ears.

"God, you're amazing. It's amazing to watch you like this, love. I can see everything. Every pulse, every twitch, every Goddamn thing I do to you, and you're taking it so, so well. I'm so proud of you, love. You're so good for me."

"Yes, John."

" _Oh,_ Sherlock. Yes. I think you're almost there again."

"Nnngh-- _John._ Too _much."_

"... Do you want to stop?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath and steadies himself. "No."

"That's the spirit, love. Alright now. Here we go, number three. Easy now. Spread your legs for me a bit more, let me tip you up--yes, yes, just like that--is that good, love? Does it feel good?"

Sherlock is startled to find that -- _yes,_ yes, it _does_ feel good, how in the hell...

John is a miracle. He's pushed Sherlock through the oppressive sensation of discomfort and over the cusp to the other side, where the pressure has turned to pleasure all over again. The new angle John is hitting is lighting up his nerve endings with jolts of desire, and he moans loudly.

"Nnnngh. Yes. Yes. John."

"That's it, love. What do you need? Let me help you get there..."

Sherlock shakes his head blearily. "H...harder, just a little harder, AUUUGH, yes, there, just...oh, God, _John..."_

He can't form words anymore. John quickens the pace of his thrusts but doesn't reduce the pressure, and Sherlock can feel his balls tightening to his body once more.

"That's it, sweetheart. Oh, yes, God, you're about to come again, I can see it, _beautiful,_ hold on now, love, give it to me, go ahead, go on now--"

His third orgasm is...not _painful,_ but Sherlock can't conjure up another word to describe it. The pleasure is bright and sharp and it slices through him like a switchblade as he jackknifes off the table, the binding around his forearms the only thing holding him steady enough to prevent him from unseating the vibrator entirely. John grabs Sherlock's left leg by the bindings to hold him in place as he continues to diligently pump the vibrator into him. Sherlock feels the hot streaks of come landing on his abdomen as he rides out the waves of sensation, even as his vision momentarily fades to black.

When he comes to, John is combing his fingers gently through his hair, pushing the sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. He's smiling down at him fondly and murmuring gentle words of affection.

Sherlock groans and shifts, and he's abruptly made aware that John is still holding the vibrator inside of him, but has ceased moving it for the time being. He whimpers.

"How are you feeling, love?"

Sherlock attempts to take stock of the situation. He wiggles his fingers and toes experimentally--he has feeling in all of them, no signs of restricted blood flow. His back is a bit sore from the hard surface, but nothing he can't endure.

His cock and hole, however, are a different story entirely. His cock feels overheated and limp against his abdomen, and the vibrations against his prostate from the vibrator are making him feel slightly nauseous.

"John." He swallows hard. He's never asked for a break before when they've been unwinding, even though John always reminds him he's allowed to. But he can't carry on in his current state.

John's peering down at him, waiting for him to continue.

"Pause, please. Pause."

John pulls out the vibrator immediately and switches it off. His brow is furrowed with concern as he moves to release the bindings on Sherlock's wrists.

"Wait, no, leave it--leave the belts." Sherlock wills himself to communicate clearly. "Leave me tied up. Just need a break from... from the vibrations."

"Of course, sweetheart, whatever you want." John's voice is soothing and earnest. "Would you like some water?"

Water? Water sounds _incredible._

"Yes, please, John."

He can hear John bustling about the kitchen to fill a glass, and the next thing he knows, John is back in his line of vision, pressing a straw to his parched lips.

He drinks deeply, closing his eyes and allowing his body to relax and recharge. He still feels helpless and vulnerable tied up like this, but knowing that John is listening to him makes him feel calm and empowered. He drains the glass and lets his head fall back to rest on the table once more. He focuses on breathing in deep, calming breaths. John stands silently by.

"Can I touch you, sweetheart?"

Sherlock nods. "Yes, John."

John approaches the table and begins to run his hand up and down Sherlock's side in a soothing, gentling motion. Sherlock relaxes into his touch.

"Do you want to stop, love? We can be done now if you're done."

"No, John. I'm alright. Just needed a break. I'll be ready to start again in a moment. Is the timer still running?"

John snorts out a laugh. "Always putting science first, I see. Yeah, I've left it on."

Sherlock grins up at him. "Good. Wouldn't want to compromise our results."

"Of course not."

They lapse into a comfortable silence. Sherlock focuses on taking deep, steadying breaths, relishing the way the rush of oxygen relaxes his tense muscles. The feeling of his own come congealing on his abdomen makes him feel deliciously debauched, and the knowledge that John is there observing him, reassuring him, feasting his eyes on his splayed and immobilized form, makes him so eager to please that he can practically taste it.

In these moments, Sherlock leans into the sensation of letting go. He hands over his transport to John's care, and trusts him to guide him wherever he wants him to go. Though he is fully-present in his body, his body belongs to John, and he will succumb to whatever pleasure or pain John asks of him. It is the epitome of trust.

"...Go ahead."

"Mmm?"

Sherlock opens his eyes again to find John still peering down at him, a diplomatically neutral expression on his face."

"I'm ready to continue whenever you are."

"Oh! Alright, love. We'll keep going. Remember, if you need to pause or stop, just say the word. Understood?"

"Yes, John."

With that, John makes his way to the end of the table, where he presses Sherlock's thighs apart with his warm, strong hands to inspect his hole. He runs his thumb experimentally over the opening and Sherlock utters a slight gasp as a shiver runs up his spine.

John nods to himself and picks up the vibrator. He presses it back inside and flicks it on once more.

Sherlock keens and moans. Though the break had been refreshing, the respite was brief--in no time at all, he feels hot and tingly, and his cock feels heavy against his abdomen as it begins to slowly stiffen.

John is moving the vibrator in and out of him at a slow, controlled pace, hitting all the places he knows make Sherlock shutter and twitch. Sherlock can feel his channel constricting and then dilating, powerless to resist the vibrator's relentless push.

It's agony and ecstasy all in one. Sherlock pulls his thighs further back to his chest and John takes the hint, grabbing the bindings of Sherlock's right leg with his free hand and pushing it out and open, Sherlock's spine curling up so his pelvis is lifted off the table entirely. John increases the depth of his thrusts with the vibrator, until Sherlock can feel the base pressing against his rim with every push.

His cock is fully hard again, but orgasm feels nearly unattainable. He's aroused but in an imprecise way that makes him feel desperate and claustrophobic, as though he's trapped in skin that's rapidly growing too tight. He feels tears spring to his eyes.

"Gahhhh." He lets out a frustrated huff, and the tears well over, spilling out the corners of his eyes and running wetly down his temples to his sweat-soaked hairline. 

He looks down to see John studying his face intently. His expression is unreadable.

Sherlock knows that it turns John on when he cries when they're unwinding. He also knows that John hates that fact about himself. But tonight, Sherlock is determined to make John embrace it.

"J-John. John." His words sound wet and muffled with tears.

"Sweetheart?"

"T-touch me. Please. Oh, God, please touch me."

"Where? Just tell me where. Anywhere you want." John begins to thrust the vibrator faster. Sherlock feels like the vibrations are reaching his throat.

"Cock. Please. Touch my--my cock. Going to... going to come. For you. Want to come for you." The end of his sentence is choked off with a sob as John continues to plunder his hole with the toy, pushing him closer to an edge that seems to forever be retreating to the horizon.

"Yes, oh God, yes, sweetheart." The next moment, John's hand is on the turgid flesh of Sherlock's cock, pumping him in time with the thrusts of the vibrator.

The overstimulation is excruciating. The flesh of his cock feels red-hot and raw, despite the fact this is the first time he's received direct stimulation all night. He wails and thrashes, but his bindings hold tight, and John is merciless; he simply strokes him harder, pausing every so often to fondle his balls before resuming his ministrations on his aching shaft.

"Nnngh Nnngh. Nnngh. Nnngh." Sherlock is vaguely aware he's making sounds akin to those of a wounded animal, but he can't be arsed to care. He's still crying, his face screwed up as he wills himself to let go, to embrace the agony and give John what he is asking of him.

"It's alright, sweetheart. Come on, now. You can do this. I know it. You're almost there, I can see it, I can feel it in your cock, you're going to come again, you can do it, just let it happen. Let me have it. Come on. Let me have it."

Sherlock wails and it's as if his brain short-circuits. The next thing he knows, John is shouting words of ecstatic encouragement as Sherlock spatters himself with yet another load. He can barely feel any of it; it's as though his consciousness is merely a passenger along for the ride.

John, however, seems completely transfixed, his gaze intense and hungry as he watches Sherlock's cock expend itself once more. "Oh _CHRIST,_ oh my God, Sherlock, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen. Oh my God, love. Oh my God. Yes. _Yes."_ He continues to stroke him as the aftershocks ripple though him again and again.

As soon as it's over, John appears at his side once more, wiping the tears from his face. The vibrations are gone, and Sherlock feels boneless and weak. He's delirious and completely beyond words as he blinks up at John through tear-thick lashes.

"Are you alright, love?"

Sherlock nods. He knows he can't speak. He's beyond words. He's helpless in John's hands.

John leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Christ, sweetheart. That was incredible. You did so well for me there. I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock can't bring himself to answer. He blinks blearily and stares up into the florescent light. Everything else is static.

He's lost all sense of time. John presses the straw to his lips and he drinks again--just a small sip or two this time, to wet his aching throat, nothing more--then he moans and closes his eyes.

He has no idea how long it's been when he hears John's voice. "Sweetheart? You still with me?"

His tongue feels thick and his lips don't seem to want to move, but he knows if he doesn't check in when John asks, John will stop everything immediately. "John." It's all he can muster.

"We have a few minutes left, love. What do you want to do?"

Sherlock's brain sparks and struggles to reboot. John is asking him to make a choice. He must assess his options and provide a response.

He tries to take stock of his body, but it's no use. He's floating; he's beyond pleasure, beyond pain, beyond any of it, there's just John, John, looming before him, larger than life. His everything. His world. His universe.

"Wh'vr you want, John."

John presses his lips together, clearly struggling to decide. Finally, he speaks.

"I think you can do it, love. I think you can give me one more. Can we try?"

Sherlock nods blearily, then sinks back into the table, his body completely pliant at John's command.

He feels the vibrator press inside him once more, and moments later, the familiar vibrations are coursing through his body, brutally intense.

His initial reaction is to seize up, to fight the intrusion, but he knows that's the opposite of what he must do to reach climax again. He focuses all his attention on willing his body to _submit_ entirely.

And it works. He hears a gasp from John as his cock begins to resolutely rise to hardness, aroused not by the vibrator at all but merely by the act of complete and total _submission._

" _Yes, YES,_ sweetheart. Oh, sweetheart, that's so good. You're so good. Oh God, Sherlock, look at you. Oh, love. Oh, _love."_ John seems to be falling beyond words as well as he pumps the vibrator in and out of Sherlock in firm, long strokes. "Do you want me to touch your cock again?"

Sherlock shakes his head. That's not going to get him there this time, he knows it. He needs something else entirely.

"My throat."

John pauses in his assault of Sherlock's hole. "Sorry?"

"Your hand. On my throat. Please."

There's the briefest of pauses, then the sound of John maneuvering from the end of the table to the side of it, keeping one hand on the vibrator to hold in in place the entire time. The other he gently places around Sherlock's neck.

"Like this, love?"

"Yes, John."

"More?"

"As tight as you can, please, John." He knows John refuses to cut off his air supply entirely, but he wants to feel as helpless as possible.

John lets out a slow, shuddering breath. "Alright, sweetheart. Snap your fingers if you need me to stop, yeah?"

"Yes, John."

John reaches down and plucks his dog tags from where they'd been resting on Sherlock's sternum. Oh, yes. Sherlock opens his mouth. John drops them inside and Sherlock closes his lips around them and proceeds to suckle them, letting the cool taste of metal ground him in the moment. John returns his hand to rest gently across Sherlock's trachea. Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and he issues a wet sob.

There's a pregnant pause.

Sherlock opens his eyes and wills the tears to stop, just for a moment. He catches John's gaze and holds it steady. Then as calmly as he can, he nods.

That's all it takes. John's fingers tighten around his throat and he begins to thrust the vibrator in deep, punishing strokes, ramming into Sherlock's prostate with unrelenting fervour. Sherlock wants to contract, wants to withdraw from the onslaught, but John's grip tightens around his neck and he's suddenly struggling for air. The tears are flowing freely again.

John is staring down at his face with fierce intensity. "Come on, now. Come on. Need you to come, sweetheart. Do it. Do it."

Sherlock's entire body feels like it's on fire. He can't move, he can't breathe, there is nothing, _nothing nothing nothing_ but this--

He comes. He's aware of it in a vague, distant sort of way; the contraction of his muscles, the way his anus grips the vibrator with renewed intensity, the way his cock twitches helplessly, the way the heat of the few drops of come still left inside him feels as they collide with his already-soaked abdomen. He sucks on John's tags with single-minded intensity throughout the ordeal, forcing himself to remain grounded, to remember why he was doing this and to whom he belonged. John's hand remains a constant pressure on his throat, allowing in only enough air for him to remain conscious as he waits for the last of his emissions to end.

Eventually the last of the tremors die down. Sherlock opens his eyes. 

The egg timer goes off.

John's hands disappear instantaneously. The vibrator is gone, and Sherlock can feel the sensation of cool air against his open hole, causing a shiver to run up his spine.

He feels--there's no way to describe how he feels. _High._ It's like being high, but the most insane goddamned high he's ever had. He's so far gone he can't even begin to function.

He turns his head to the side and spits out John's tags before gasping in the deepest, most refreshing breath of air he can ever remember taking.

He takes two more breaths and moans.

Oh Christ. He is _so far gone._

Then he hears a familiar sound. It's the sound of John undoing his trousers. Before Sherlock can process what's happening, he's been bodily pulled to the bottom of the table so that his arse is nearly hanging off the edge, John's hands tangled in the belts binding his legs.

John brutally thrusts his cock inside.

It might hurt. Sherlock's not really sure. He doesn't really feel anything at all. He's just floating, waves of endorphins and adrenaline drowning his brain in paralyzing comfort as he gives over his body for John's use. It's complete and total surrender.

He manages to open his tear-soaked eyes long enough to glance down to where John is plundering him relentlessly between his legs. John's face is flushed with arousal, brow creased in feral intensity, eyes locked on Sherlock's face as he reams into him with single-minded intensity.

"Ohhhhhhh..." Sherlock moans from the overstimulation, and a fresh wave of tears overtakes him. He sobs and clutches the binding around his wrists for dear life as John takes his pleasure without mercy.

Then John is shouting, and Sherlock can feel the heat of his release blooming deep inside him. John's orgasm seems to last longer than normal, but Sherlock remains perfectly still and pliant until John has emptied every last drop of himself inside.

Afterwards, time is suspended. The next thing Sherlock knows, his bindings are gone, and he's lying splayed and boneless on the table, legs dangling off the edge, arms limp and unmoving at his sides. He blinks up into the florescent light. Everything is completely quiet.

Then he hears it. The quietest of sobs, muffled and soft, incongruent in the familiar space of the empty kitchen.

He wills himself to sit up, eyes searching the room wildly.

John isn't hard to find. He's on the floor, back up against the stove, knees pulled tight to his chest, face buried in his arms as his back heaves with wracking sobs he's trying hard to suppress. 

Sherlock wills his brain to function. Think, _think,_ he needs to _think,_ he needs to _fix this, right the hell now..._

Using every existing ounce of willpower he can muster, he pulls himself into a sitting position, pausing only momentarily to let the inevitable head rush pass. The he gets to his feet and staggers the few steps to where John is sitting before going to his knees, legs folding unsteadily beneath him, hands resting on John's knees.

"John? John."

John lifts his head. His face is streaked with tears and his eyes only rest on Sherlock's face for the briefest of moments before flitting away, as though he's ashamed to look at him.

"John? Are you alright? Talk to me, please."

John shakes his head and swallows hard. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Sherlock tightens his grip on John's knees in what he hopes is a reassuring fashion--he's terrible at gauging emotions and offering comfort, and this situation has him completely blindsided. "What for? It's alright to... I mean, it's okay if you need to... um, this." For some reason he doesn't want to say 'cry'; he feels like that will make John feel emasculated, and he's fairly certain that's the last thing he needs at the moment.

John presses his lips together. "No. No, I'm sorry for it all."

Sherlock cocks his head; he's completely lost. "...Sorry for... what?"

John's body trembles with another suppressed sob. "Sorry for... for the way that I am. Shit, I don't know. What the hell is wrong with me?"

"John, you're going to have to be specific here. What are you talking about?"

"What the hell is wrong with me that I want this? What the hell is wrong with me that I want to _do that to you?"_

Sherlock is still entirely flummoxed. "Do...what?" Nothing that they'd just done was outside of their wheelhouse; it's not like John had pushed a boundary without negotiating it first.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock, I just tied you down and made you cry and then fucked you while you laid there and sobbed and _I got off on it. Jesus,_ I got off on it..."

Well, shit. This certainly seemed bigger than just a bit of post-session embarrassment. Sherlock takes a deep breath and wills himself to remain steady.

"Yes, John, and I got off on it, too."

John's eyes finally snap to his, his face contorted in what looks like anger. "Then what the hell is wrong with _you?_ What the hell is wrong with _us?"_

That's the last straw.

"John, look at me. _There is nothing wrong with me._ And there is sure as hell nothing wrong with _us._ You've only ever done what I've asked of you. What I need from you. You take care of me."

John's gaze drifts back up to the table, still littered with the discarded belts, and he bites his lip, shaking his head slowly. "I hurt you. I make you submit to me and then I fuck you because it turns me on. That's twisted."

"John, look at me. _Look at me."_ John's watery eyes meet Sherlock's. "You have _never_ caused me actual pain. Ever. Overstimulation, sure. But never real pain. _Never_ pain."

John just shakes his head and looks away.

Sherlock tries a different approach.

"Do you remember the first time I asked you to dominate me?"

A wane smile plays across John's face, and for a moment, the sadness in his eyes is replaced by a flash of fond nostalgia.

"Eurovision?"

Sherlock grins. "Mmmhmm." It had been years ago, back even before the Fall. Up until that point he had John had only had a short series of clandestine, frantic sexual encounters, shrouded in confusion and awkwardness and secrecy. He'd had no idea how to express what else he wanted from John, or whether John would even be willing to give it to him.

But one night they'd split an expensive bottle of Scotch (a gift from a grateful client) whilst watching Eurovision on the telly, and Sherlock had been so drunk his inhibitions were completely shot. He'd gotten on his knees in front of John and--

"You got on your knees and asked me to use you."

"I believe the exact phrase I employed was 'Fuck my face'."

John snorts out a laugh. "You did always have a way with words."

His eyes finally meet Sherlock's once more, and there's a beat as they smile at one another, lost in the memory. 

Finally, Sherlock continues. "My point is, John--I've asked for this from the start. And you have never once done anything I didn't ask you to do. _This_ is what I want. I want to give myself to you. It's all I've ever wanted. It's all I'll ever need."

The words pour out of his mouth before he can think of censoring them, and for a moment, John's face crumples, and Sherlock things perhaps he's said all the wrong things. But then John is pulling him into his arms, embracing him there on the kitchen floor, wrapping him in the safety of his presence, as though they could never be close enough.

Sherlock leans into the embrace, burying his face in John's neck and inhaling his familiar scent as John begins to run his hands up and down Sherlock's back reassuringly, tracing each vertebrae of his spine, then up to tangle in his hair, then back down once more.

They stay like that for what may have been a minute, or may have been an hour--Sherlock has no concept of time. But when he does begin to swim back to the surface of reality, the first thing he notices is that he is really fucking uncomfortable.

He's stark naked and the kitchen floor is bloody freezing, the gritty linoleum digging directly into his hip. He can feel the stickiness of congealed come up the entire length of his abdomen and torso, not to mention the unsettling sensation of John's release trickling out from between his cheeks. His face feels stiff and caked with the salt of dried tears, and his tongue feels glued to the top of his mouth.

He shifts slightly. John lets out a low hum and gives him another light squeeze.

Sherlock assesses the situation. He needs to figure out what headspace John is in; there's a chance he may still be able to get his plan back on track, to turn this all around and give John what he'd wanted to give him from the start--but it all depends on whether John is still amenable.

"John?"

"Hmmm?"

"I'm cold." It's a shot in the dark, but he figures it's a good litmus test to see where John's at.

John's response is instantaneous--in no time at all, he's standing and pulling Sherlock to his feet, tutting and fretting worse than Mrs. H ever does. "Oh, love, of course, you must be freezing. Come on, sweetheart, how does a nice, hot shower sound?"

"Good, John. Thank you, John." Sherlock smiles to himself. John's still in unwinding mode, then. Excellent.

John helps an unsteady Sherlock down the hall to the bathroom and sets the taps to warm, keeping one arm wrapped around Sherlock the entire time. He guides Sherlock under the steaming spray before stripping and joining him moments later, then proceeds with his usual washing routine.

Sherlock normally doesn't want any aftercare when they unwind following a case--the thought of it makes him feel suffocated and exhausted; he generally just wants to rinse himself off quickly and collapse into a deep and dreamless sleep as soon as they're done. But they've discovered that they both benefit from a few little post-sex rituals if they've been unwinding without a case; Sherlock has discovered he doesn't mind John's doting at those times, and John loves the extra step of taking care of him in a non-sexual way once the sexual part has concluded.

Showering together is a routine they've since well-established. John washes Sherlock head to toe with a warm flannel infused with sandalwood soap (the mere scent of it now makes Sherlock feel calm and relaxed by association) before helping Sherlock sit on the floor of the tub at John's feet while John shampoos his hair. It's a soothing, practiced procedure, and tonight Sherlock finds himself drifting back into his submissive headspace as John carefully works him over.

John takes more time than usual with him in the shower tonight. It takes a few passes to get all the come off of Sherlock (how the hell had he gotten some behind his _ear?!)_ , and by the time John has him at his feet with John's fingers tangled in his hair, working the eucalyptus shampoo into a pleasant froth, Sherlock is well back under.

John finishes rinsing Sherlock's hair and leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head. "There we are, sweetheart. All clean now. Ready for bed?"

Sherlock tips his head back to meet John's eyes and blinks up at him as demurely as he can muster. "John? My back is sore. Can we use some of your menthol soak?"

John's eyes widen fractionally, and Sherlock has to suppress a smile as he leaps into action with exuberant haste. "Of _course,_ love. Here, you lie back and I'll go fetch it, alright?"

He eases Sherlock back so that he's stretched the length of the tub, then pulls the stopper to switch the water from the shower to the tap as he plugs the drain. John hops out and begins to rummage through the cabinet, carelessly leaving a trail of water across the bathroom tile in his wake. It's so unlike him to be that careless, but the eagerness with which he procures the bottle of bath salts makes Sherlock feel tingly all over, long before anything's been added to the bath.

John had introduced Sherlock to the joys of a good menthol soak years ago. John had initially used it when his shoulder or leg were bothering him, but it was also helpful for the standard post-pursuit soreness that was inevitable in their line of work; it was near impossible for two men of their age to be as active as they were without paying the price afterwards. But the menthol really did help, and Sherlock had used it on several occasions to recover from post-case aches and pains.

But tonight's the first time he's requested it after a session, and John seems all too delighted to be of use as he pours the crystals into the steaming water. In no time, the room is filled with the tranquil scent, and Sherlock closes his eyes, inhaling deeply.

"Is that better, love? Do you want me to leave you?"

"No!" Sherlock's eyes snap open and he grabs John's wrist just as he was making to stand. "Will you... will you get in with me? Hold me?"

"Oh! Um, sure, of course, sweetheart. Just budge up a bit, there you go." John clumsily inserts himself into the water behind Sherlock, bracketing him with his legs. Sherlock leans back against John's chest, and John wraps his arms around him. Sherlock sighs contentedly. This is bliss.

They stay like that until the water turns tepid, John tracing lazy circles across the expanse of Sherlock's skin with the lightest brush of his fingertips. Finally, John speaks. "Alright, sweetheart. Ready to get out now?"

"Mmmm." Sherlock hums lazily and sits up. John manages to extricate himself from the tub and fetches two fluffy towels before helping Sherlock from the bath and drying him off completely, then uses the second towel on himself.

"Okay, love. Come on, this way. Let's get you into bed." John guides him into the bedroom and pulls back the duvet, then helps ease Sherlock into place in the centre of the bed. He leans down to place a kiss on his forehead. "How's your back, sweetheart?"

"Much better, John."

John nods, then hesitates. There's a moment of silence, then he seems to gather his courage and soldiers on. "Would you... would you like a massage?"

Sherlock has to fight back a grin. He knows massages are another common form of aftercare, but he and John haven't really dabbled in it much. But it seems John has caught on to what Sherlock wants, and Sherlock is ready to enthusiastically comply. "Yes, please, John."

He'd have to be blind to miss the way John's pupils dilate. He is _loving_ this, Sherlock realises, with a slight twinge of guilt--how selfish is he that he's been depriving John of this all this time? But he pushes the guilt away and focuses on being present in the moment; the rest he can sort out later.

John maneuvers him onto his stomach and retrieves a bottle of scented oil from God only knows where (had he been perhaps working up to propositioning this himself at some point? It certainly seems plausible...) and then straddles Sherlock's back and begins to work over his muscles with dedicated precision.

It's heaven. Sherlock feels nothing less than euphoric as John's strong fingers make quick work of the knots that had formed in his shoulders and along his spine before working their way down to his hips and thighs. John had given him a massage once before (after Sherlock's birthday session), but he'd been too out of it to appreciate it fully at the time. This time, however, he feels poignantly aware of every last sensation in his body as John lavishes him with tender care and affection.

Finally, John sits back. "You with me, love?"

"Yes, John." Sherlock's voice sounds hoarse and foreign in his own ears.

"How was that?"

"Amazing, John."

"Good, I'm glad, sweetheart." He rolls over to lay beside Sherlock, and Sherlock opens his eyes to find John's peering into his own. John reaches out and begins to run his fingers lightly through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock leans into the touch and closes his eyes once more.

But Sherlock doesn't want it to be over just yet. John has responded beautifully to all of Sherlock's requests so far, and there's one more thing he wants to try before the session concludes once and for all.

"John?"

"Sweetheart?"

"I'm hungry."

"Oh!" Again, John is bolt upright and getting to his feet almost before Sherlock has had time to complete his request. "Of course, love. What do you want to eat?"

Sherlock rolls onto his back. "Dunno. Whatever you want me to have, John."

John pauses and then nods resolutely before disappearing down the hall.

Sherlock lets himself float as he waits for John's return. He can't believe he's never tried aftercare like this with John before; it's _lovely,_ really, having John take care of him so tenderly and with such single-minded devotion. He just may be able to get used to it.

In what feels like no time at all, he hears John's footsteps in the hallway, and he arrives back at the bedside with a plate in hand. Sherlock pulls himself into a sitting position to peer at its contents; a grilled cheese (one of Sherlock's guilty pleasures) and a handful of strawberries, deep red and deliciously ripe. Despite himself, Sherlock's stomach growls.

John grins down at him and extends the plate.

Sherlock doesn't reach for it. Instead, he opens his mouth.

They both freeze. Sherlock's pushing a boundary here, he realises, and wonders wildly if this is something he should have negotiated with John beforehand. Probably. Christ, he's an idiot, this is _absolutely_ something they should have negotiated, it's kinky as hell, it's fucking _weird,_ John is probably completely repulsed by--

" _Oh."_ John says it so quietly under his breath that Sherlock almost doesn't hear it, but his tone is unmistakable. _He wants this._

Sherlock internally pumps his fist in victory. Externally, he remains calm and emotionless, mouth open, eyes placating, waiting for John to make the first move.

Which he does. John climbs into bed and wraps one arm around Sherlock to pull him close to his side, balancing the plate on his own lap before reaching down to grab a strawberry and lift it to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock leans forward to take the berry in his mouth, and bites down.

John shutters. _"Oh."_

When Sherlock had done research on aftercare earlier that afternoon, the "feeding" portion had struck him as a bit odd, but he saw on the message boards how favourably it was reviewed by most dominant partners. And John seems to be no exception; he watches Sherlock with reverent awe as he feeds him a series of three berries before tearing off small, bite-sized portions of sandwich, which he drops one by one onto Sherlock's tongue, murmuring extravagant words of praise in Sherlock's ear as he chews and swallows each time.

In what feels like no time at all, Sherlock has consumed the entire sandwich and every last berry. After John places the last piece of crust onto Sherlock's eager tongue, Sherlock softly licks each of John's fingers clean, his eyes locked into John's the entire time. John is smiling down at Sherlock as though he's the most precious possession in the world. Sherlock has pleased him. Sherlock has pleased him _very_ much.

John pulls his thumb from where Sherlock had been gently suckling it, and cups Sherlock's face in his hands. "Oh, sweetheart. That was so good. _That was so good."_ He leans forward and kisses Sherlock passionately, tongue probing his mouth, making Sherlock feel undeniably and beautifully _claimed._

Eventually John pulls away. "How are you feeling, love?"

Sherlock's eyes flutter shut. "Tired, John."

"Alright. Sleep now?"

"Yes, please, John."

John turns and places the empty plate on the nightstand and flicks off the light, then pulls Sherlock close to his chest. Sherlock melts into his embrace.

"Goodnight, love. You wake me if you need anything, yeah?"

"Yes, John. Goodnight, John."

John presses a firm kiss to Sherlock's curls. It's the last sensation Sherlock remembers.

******

He smells coffee. Not just regular coffee-- the watery, tepid substance John makes for himself in a travel cup before he leaves for the surgery-- but _real_ coffee. Good coffee--cappuccinos? And... something baked and sugary. Decadent and delicious.

The pieces fall into place: John has ordered delivery from Angelo's bakery. (And no, Angelo's was not available for delivery to the average clientele - but for Sherlock and John, one call and a bike messenger was en route with whatever their hearts desired.)

Sherlock is on his feet with reckless haste, pausing only momentarily to grab his dressing gown before swaying slightly against the doorframe as his body desperately reminds him of the rigors he'd put it through the night before. But God help him, nothing-- _nothing_ \-- was coming between him and Angelo's fresh-made _sfogliatella._

He makes his way to the sitting room to find a plate laden with pastries perched on the coffee table. He descends on it with single-minded focus.

The first bite of pastry is _transcendent_ \-- crisp and delicate and laced with butter and sugar, it all but melts on his tongue. He closes his eyes in rapture.

"Good morning to you, too."

He opens his eyes and turns around to see John emerging from the kitchen, two paper cups (presumably holding their cappuccinos) in hand. He's watching Sherlock with an expression of bemused fondness.

"Mr'ng." He swallows the first bite and barely pauses for a breath before taking a second.

John shakes his head and rolls his eyes, placing one of the cups on the coffee table and plucking a pastry off the plate before settling himself in his chair. He's clearly in an indulgent mood this morning.

"Feeling alright, then?"

Sherlock pops the last bite of pastry in his mouth and licks his fingers, then picks up his cappuccino and inhales the heady aroma. "I'm about to be. Need caffeine."

"Well, then. By all means." John smiles at him and then picks up the paper and buries his nose in it, clearly content to give Sherlock some time to get his mind and body back on track.

Eventually, Sherlock starts to feel like he's approaching operating level once more. His head feels clear and his Mind Palace is open for business. His body is another story-- his wrists and forearms are littered with bruises, his legs are stiff from being in one position for so long, and his arse... well, he's felt better. But he pays it no mind; it's all just transport, anyway.

"I think I'm back online."

John folds the paper down to peer at him, then breaks into a satisfied smile. "Glad to hear it."

Sherlock reclines on the couch to digest and sort out his thoughts. He notes the absence of the racket from next door before recalling that it's Saturday--presumably he and John would finally get some peace and quiet without the construction crew around.

Eventually he hears the sound of John folding up the paper and setting it aside. He glances over but notes John isn't making to stand. Instead, he's observing Sherlock in a calculating, purposeful way. It appears he wants to Talk.

"So... last night."

"Mmm?" Sherlock meets John's eyes, taking care to leave his expression neutral.

"First, I wanted to... wanted to thank you. For proposing the session. I needed it, and I was so wound up and lost in my own thoughts I didn't even recognise it. So thank you."

"Of course, John. My pleasure. Quite literally, in fact."

John chuckles, but quickly forges ahead with the conversation. "That said, though... I think we need to... need to negotiate some things."

Sherlock feels a little flutter in his stomach. He always does whenever John gets serious about their relationship like this. There's no reason for for nervousness at all--every negotiation they've had thus far has led to very pleasurable results indeed, but for some reason he's always apprehensive the moment John suggests they _talk._ It can be awkward, and uncomfortable, and he'd rather avoid it altogether, but he knows it's necessary for them to keep doing what they do.

He reluctantly rises and makes his way to his chair, where he sits and meets John's gaze. "Alright, then."

John clears his throat. Sherlock knows he's not entirely comfortable with this part either, but John always does his best to guide them through the pitfalls of even the most intense negotiations; it's part of what Sherlock loves so dearly about him.

"So... so lately, I've been realising that... the, the things we do... our sessions, you know... they've been getting more intense. There was your birthday, and then we took things outside the flat for the first time in Brighton, then we, um, we switched things up a bit," (John blushes at this part, recalling the first time he'd let Sherlock penetrate him; it had been enjoyable enough for them both, but not something they would be repeating any time soon). "And now we've started experimenting with breathplay on top of it all, and it's good, Sherlock, it really is, but it's... _intense._ Really intense."

Sherlock nods and swallows hard. Was John going to suggest that they dial things back? He supposes he'd be amenable, but he'd been enjoying their recent sessions immensely...

John takes a deep breath. "And... I know we've talked about this before. I know you're not really that into aftercare. But I'm starting to think _I_ might be. And it's making me feel really conflicted. I don't want you to be smothered; I don't want you to subject yourself to things you don't want when you're trying to recover from a session, and knowing that you're uncomfortable or that my advances are unwanted would sort of negate the pleasure of my giving you aftercare in the first place."

Sherlock nods solemnly and bites his bottom lip, waiting for John to finish.

"So... so I think we need to find a compromise, here. I'm having a hard time coming down after sessions when I don't give you aftercare. It... it contradicts my nature. I want... I _need_ to take care of you after I... after I do those things to you."

Sherlock averts his eyes as he attempts to sift through the thousand swirling thoughts all fighting their way to the forefront of his mind. Finally, he's able to conjure a coherent proposal.

"What if... what if we have levels?"

John cocks his head. "Levels?"

"We could categorise the various activities we engage in into one of three levels, based on their intensity ."

John narrows his eyes appraisingly. "Go on." 

"Level One would be the mildest. For the tamer things, the ones we're most familiar with, like bondage, edging, biting, hair-pulling, rough oral...and maybe rough penetrative sex, if it's only one round. And after a Level One session, I wouldn't get any aftercare; you'd just let me shower and go bed like we currently do most of the time. We'd... we'd have Level One sessions after cases, when I'm exhausted and will just want to sleep once we're through."

John nods thoughtfully, though he doesn't look entirely convinced.

"Level Two would be for when things are a bit more intense. Multiple rounds of penetrative intercourse with use of my anal plug, for instance. Forced orgasms, any time you use the vibrator, overstimulation of my nipples or prostate... any time I cry..." He adds the last bit as an afterthought, and he can't ignore the way John averts his eyes in shame as he says those words. He carries on quickly to gloss over the subject. "After a Level Two session, we'd have some standard aftercare. Cleaning in the shower and, um, cuddling in bed." He feels like an arse saying the word 'cuddling' out loud; small wonder that he can mention his anal plug without blushing, but for some reason the word 'cuddling' makes his face feel hot... he mentally acquiesces to internally assessing that later.

"And finally, Level Three would just be for our most intense sessions. For... for the times that I fight you and make you force me. For the times that you leave me tied up for hours on end. For the times we use breathplay or gunplay. For the times... for the times I beg for it to hurt." He uses 'hurt' in the least literal sense of it--the "pain" that he feels when John overstimulates him during their sessions is more _intense discomfort born of excessive pleasure_ than actual _hurt_ \--He silently wills John to understand what he means. 

John nods slowly. Sherlock continues. "After... after a Level Three session, like last night, we could have extensive aftercare. Baths, massages...feeding" (he feels his heart rate increase when he remembers just how beautifully _comforting_ it felt to have John give him each tiny mouthful of food) "... whatever you want."

John licks his lips, then opens his mouth as if to respond before promptly closing it again. He sits there in mute silence for 76 seconds. Sherlock scarcely dares breathe.

Finally, John speaks. "But Sherlock... what do _you_ want? If aftercare is unappealing to you, putting you through it--"

Sherlock interrupts before John can go any further. "It's not that it's unappealing, John. I've... I've started detecting a pattern in my own reactions to it, and it's fairly straightforward: I don't like aftercare when I'm in a post-case crash. When we unwind following a case, as soon as it's over, my brain and body are both finally _done._ They're spent, burnt out; I can't possibly process any more input. Nothing feels particularly _bad_ to me, but nothing feels _good,_ either. I need to sleep before I can start processing anything again, for better or worse."

John tips his head thoughtfully, patiently waiting for Sherlock to continue.

"But... but when we've been unwinding _outside_ of our post-case sessions, the aftercare... it's _good._ It's _really_ good, John. The cleaning feels amazing, it feels relaxing, it makes me feel close to you and safe and valued."

John smiles, clearly pleased. "Good. That's... well, that's exactly what it's supposed to do."

Sherlock returns his smile. "And... and after my birthday session, when you gave me that massage, it felt almost as good as the sex." John's eyes glaze over momentarily, clearly sharing in the memory. "And last night..." Sherlock takes a deep breath. "The feeding was good. It was really good for me. How... how was it for you?"

John lets out a long, slow breath. "It was... it was incredible. It made me feel _useful,_ and _competent,_ and _kind._ Like I was actually taking care of you."

Sherlock grins. "You were. I need you in all sorts of ways, John. That's just another one."

"Where... where did you learn about that, anyway? Something tells me you didn't just come up with the idea of _food_ on your own."

"John, your lack of faith in my deductive abilities is entirely disheartening." John holds Sherlock in a steady glare and raises his eyebrows. "Oh, fine. The internet. I did some research on types of aftercare while you were at work yesterday. That was one of the most popular ones that came up."

John throws his head back and laughs. "That makes sense. Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad you did your research."

"Me, too."

They lapse into a lengthy silence, still holding one another's gaze. The room feels like it's crackling with electricity; Sherlock still can't figure out how John can make him feel like this after all these years; it's utter madness.

Finally, John shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "So, um, we're meeting Molly at the park to get Rosie at 10."

Sherlock nods and glances at the clock. It's 8:46.

The flush in John's cheeks is spreading. Sherlock is suddenly aware of the fact that his own cock is at half-mast beneath his dressing gown; all this talk of their activities has lit the synapses in his brain like a spreading wildfire.

Sherlock has a lot to accomplish today. He needs to accompany John to pick up Rosie, and they'll likely spend some 'quality family time' together at the park. Once they return to the flat, he'll catalogue the results of last night's experiment in his notebook. Then he urgently needs to start a new index wherein he'll list every one of their sexual activities and classify them by Level--then produce the list for John to check over and approve. 

But for now...

Sherlock unties the belt of his dressing gown and pulls it open to reveal his nude form underneath. John falls to his knees, a wicked grin spreading across face.

Science can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I'm completely incapable of writing fluff without angst. OH WELL. I tried.

**Author's Note:**

> I also have a question I'm hoping you lovely readers can help me out with: For an installment like this, in which there are multiple chapters each containing different activities, how do you prefer the work to be tagged? I personally prefer to add tags as I go, chapter by chapter, because I feel like otherwise the sense of suspense is rather diminished. That said, I'm wondering if some people are turned off when they get invested in a fic and then it ends up including tags for things they don't fancy. Thoughts? Opinions?


End file.
